


The Morning After the Night Before

by Writer_at_the_Table



Category: Arthurian Literature - Fandom, Arthurian Mythology, Arthurian Mythology & Related Fandoms, The Prose Merlin, The Prose Merlin (Robert de Boron)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Missing Scene, Panic Attacks, Realization, Reveal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:42:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26598514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Writer_at_the_Table/pseuds/Writer_at_the_Table
Summary: He cannot be dead, she thinks, she just saw him, he only left her moments ago, he cannot be dead in another castle. If they just go outside, ride out, they’ll catch up to him, riding with Brethel and Jordan…A missing scene from The Prose Merlin, in which Ygerne is told that her husband has been killed in battle.What Uther does to Ygerne in The Prose Merlin is, by any modern standards, including my own, rape. The act itself is not described in this story, which is why I didn't use the Archive Warning, but Ygerne's reaction to finding out that it did happen is, so if that's not something you're okay to read about, skip this one.
Kudos: 3





	The Morning After the Night Before

**Author's Note:**

> Written in December of 2013 as part of a final exam for a college English course on Arthurian literature.

Ygerne knows the messenger is speaking, but does not comprehend his words. She hears his voice, distant as if he were across a crowded banquet hall and not standing before her, but his words are like the nonsense her daughter had babbled as a very young child. She does not need to understand his words to interpret his face though. Ygerne has learned to read men's faces the way priests read the letters in their books. She sees in the messenger's expression, beyond weariness from travel, a measure of grief, or at least regret. She sees discomfort at delivering painful news and fear of upsetting a woman of higher rank. She sees all of this in the space of a moment. Then the messenger repeats himself - "Duke Gorlois is dead, my Lady" - and this time she both hears and understands. 

He cannot be dead, she thinks, she just saw him; he only left her moments ago. He cannot be dead miles away in another castle. If they just go outside, ride out, they’ll catch up to him, riding with Brethel and Jordan…

She does not say any of this. She knows, somehow, that it is not true. She forces herself to nod at the messenger and thank him for his services, gesturing at one of the servants to see to him before she retreats toward her rooms. She must not lose control now, in front of the servants and attendants and others in the hall.

The stone floor of the castle seems less steady beneath her feet than it had been moments ago. There is a heaviness low in her belly, like she’s swallowed a large stone. She struggles to breath, to hold herself upright, to focus. The world around her whirls.

She had known, she thinks as she walks from the hall, most of her concentration devoted to putting one foot in front of the other, to not falling over. She had known something was wrong, and she had done nothing. She thinks of Golrois, so eager, lying beside her. “No one must know I am here,” he had told her, holding her in an embrace so tight it had hurt. “I have snuck away, to see you, but only for a night. Then I must return.” She thinks of how little he spoke after that, of the almost feverish glint in his eyes when he’d looked at her, and shudders. Whoever had shared her bed last night, he had not been her husband. She had allowed some other man, or some demon, into her bed, a man with her husband’s face and her husband’s voice, but not her husband’s words or expressions. She had lain with him and slept beside him with her head on his chest, reveling in the sound of his heartbeat, and suppressed the voice at the back of her mind that said something was wrong because she was so glad to have him with her again.

She chokes on the bubble of air rising in her throat, swallows a sob before it can escape, and squeezes her eyes shut tight to stop any tears from leaking out. She will not cry. She keeps walking, one foot in front of the other, holding up her skirts with hands clenched into fists. Her shoes click clack on the stone floor and no one speaks.

Later, when she can think again, she remembers the lecherous, predatory glint in Uther’s eyes when he watched her, remembers the tales of his advisor Merlin, the demon’s child with his strange powers, and knows who shared her bed last night, while her husband was fighting and dying to protect her. The knowledge is useless. She knows better than to accuse the king of such a crime, especially now, when she and her people are at his mercy. Uther’s knights have killed her husband. She and all his holdings are Uther’s by right. But she knows, and she keeps the knowledge close to her heart. She will never allow herself to forget.


End file.
